


Untitled Universe

by loyalbloggerwhoshoots



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 22:59:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2485349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyalbloggerwhoshoots/pseuds/loyalbloggerwhoshoots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles based off the relationship between my Sebastian and Eve, an original female character who was hosted at the blog paralleluniversesarecool. Sort of a Wholock thing</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Blink of an Eye

A woman sits alone by the fireplace of a small inn in Killarney.  A young woman by the barmaid’s guess; by anyone’s guess. The last of the other mourners had left hours ago, but the tiny frame that sat shivering by the fire hadn’t stirred once.

            They tutted fondly as they worked around the sable-clad figure, these well-meaning old gossips - the definition of Irish compassion and sympathies – they patted the statue’s head, moved her lace away from the fire, and let her be.  

            Eve’s blood ran cold, her heart was heavy marble in her chest; her eyes had bled themselves dry long ago. She wouldn’t thaw, oh no, she wouldn’t thaw until they laid her in the ground with them.

            She’d always known, she’d always known that he’d go first, but she’d hoped he’d be an old man by then.

And  the children…

The statue blinked slowly, images stirring behind its eyes and blades ripping through its chest.

…

“She heard the dead man say—   
Look for me by moonlight;   
Watch for me by moonlight;   
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!”

Seven year old Bea loved poetry, just like her father, and the melodramatic romance of  _The Highwayman_  caught her fancy more than any other verse. They’d read it to her in bed, Seb and Eve, at least three times a week by her request, since she was five years old. If he was merry he’d even do sound effects – which invariably resulted in his wife and daughter rolling around on the bed laughing; no closer to sleep than when they’d began.

 One night, they’d read her the whole thing, sound effects and all, and she’d gone to sleep happily after.

            ‘Life imitates art, darlin’’ He’d muttered, as they stared out across the rolling hills that surrounded their home afterwards, a glass of wine in front of each of them.

She didn’t reply, she just took his hand and squeezed it gently, knowing that they were repeating the same mantra in their heads.

_We’re safe out here, we’re safe. He can’t find us._

_…  
_

The statue twitches every now and then, when certain music comes on the ancient player. When the clock was ticking the last seconds of the witching hours and the fire was nigh burnt out, a tune begins that set her soul shaking.

Those flighty tunes he loved so much, soundtrack to his hidden childhood and their evenings on the porch. Those Irish ditties that entered your head and ran away with your feet, they were the music of their broken home. The statue stood, but there was no one left to exclaim surprise, or joy, they’d all retired to the easy sleep of the sympathetic un-bereaved, hours since, while the little statue replayed the griefs and joys of a lifetime in the embers of a dying fire. It didn’t cry, it didn’t scream, but it felt it’s heart of stone crack at the song, sang in a voice too close and too different from the one she was accustomed to hearing. What a lonely dance, peopled with so many shadows.

He hadn’t told her to wait for him, like Bess the landlord’s daughter, but she’d watched for him by moonlight, terror gripping at her throat even as black gloved hands closed around his a mere mile away.  Jim Moriarty only got his hands dirty three times in his entire career. Three souls torn from the world by him,  _personally:_  and they were all hers. He’d made her watch him kill her children over their father’s lifeless corpse, then he’d driven away laughing, because he knew he’d killed her as sure as if he’d choked her as well.

…

She’d stayed long enough to bury them, in his childhood home, in the ground from which he’d been born and they’d laid their roots. The statue was so brittle, had spent so long by the fire, that by the time it fell gracelessly from the bridge it shattered like so much hollow bone.


	2. Emptiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written by paralleluniversesarecool

Her heart was still beating its half complete beat, a never ending torment against her ribs. Eve lay next to Sebastian, her cold back facing him, its glacier angles denying intimacy – denying truth.

She couldn’t bear it, she couldn’t, she wouldn’t. She’ll roll over and tell him the truth. But the truth will tear out your tongue on its way out; and leave your excuses mute.

She’s sick of the hands that don’t belong on her skin, the feeling that she’s not quite his. There’s nothing in it but fluids and flesh, but it empties her soul and her bones.

The rain thunders on the roof above their bed, and the truth is deafeningly silent.

‘Sebastian, I’ve got something to say, but I’m afraid you might kill me after.’


	3. All Things End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written by paralleluniversesarecool

It ended how it always would. Despite everything they put in the stock to make them hardy, despite her stubbornness and relative youth: it ended how it always would.

It ended in a brothel. It ended in disease. It ended in a night time rush to an unmarked mass grave with a dozen others who’s succumbed to the infection.

Before that though, when there was a spark of life left in the husk who used to be a whore, who used to be Koschei’s wife, who used to be a free woman, before that there’d been a memory.

An old one, she could tell by the blurring at the edges that marked it out as warm, happy, treasure. She remembered, she remembered….

The last time she’d seen eyes that weren’t ice and fire and violence and….

The last time she’d know touch that wasn’t harsh and hard and scarring and….

‘Kind Master…’ and then the light went out.


End file.
